Misery of the Morning
by Peradan
Summary: Not for the fainthearted! Outtakes of various death scenes from the Left to Follow universe. So far, only one.


He had never been uncomfortable in this room before. Always he had felt welcomed, whether she was present or not, because he was _hers_, a part of her, and he belonged wherever she did. Now, though, it was different; or to be more precise, _he_ was different. He felt tall, ungainly, a strange foreign creature in these coolly elegant rooms. It had not been very long ago that he would creep into her bed, as often as he could manage it, comforted by her calm, loving voice, the warmth of her body against his. He could not imagine doing so ever again.

She sat in a chair by the window, her slender form stiffly upright as ever. He was vaguely unsettled by her stillness; no matter how light his step, he had never been able to evade her notice before. It was only when he cleared his throat that she noticed him, her face lighting up as she turned to face him. "Fitzwilliam!" she said delightedly.

She did not look very different, for she had been pale and slender as long as he could remember, but something was not right. Quite suddenly, without knowing why, he was afraid.

The talk was exactly as it had always been, yet he could not shake off the uneasiness that had settled in his gut. He still did not know why she had asked for _him_, alone. They were neither of them great conversationalists, and in the course of several hours, neither said anything of great importance.

This last silence lasted several minutes, minutes which she did not seem to notice at all, her brilliant dark eyes focussed on nothing in particular. She seemed increasingly sleepy, and finally, unable to bear the unnatural quiet any longer, he said, "Is there something I can do for you?"

She gave a little sigh, once more looking directly at him. He suppressed a shiver. Her gaze was too bright, too intense, too _much_, yet was it not the very mirror of his own? The upwards tilt, the shape, even the dark sweep of the lashes, they were all the same; but today, they were somehow not the same. "I am tired, Fitzwilliam," she said quietly.

He gathered the shreds of his composure. "Yes, mother, I know," he said. "Perhaps you should go to bed?"

She smiled tiredly. "Not quite yet, my dear. Would you mind reading to me?"

He lifted his eyes up to stare at her. "Why — of course not, if you wish. What would you like to hear?" He desperately hoped his voice could be relied upon to remain steady. It no longer broke, rising and falling without warning, but the fear had risen to his throat, making something ache in his chest, and it took a conscious effort to speak normally. She directed him to an old Bible she had long treasured, and then with a quick gesture, reached out to hold his free hand.

For the first time, it occurred to him that she might also feel something of his uneasiness, and wish for comfort as intensely as he did. He placed his hand in her own — their shape, despite everything, still identical — and closed his long fingers tightly around hers. "Please, go ahead," she whispered.

"O Lord, rebuke me not in thine anger, neither chasten me in thy hot displeasure," he began, wondering at the verses she had chosen. "Have mercy upon me, O Lord; for I am weak: O Lord, heal me; for my bones are vexed." He spared only a brief moment to reflect that it sounded like something Aunt Catherine might say, before gloom overcame him once more.

"My soul is also sore vexed: but thou, O Lord, how long? Return, O Lord, deliver my soul: oh save me for thy mercies' sake. For in death — " His voice broke for the first time, and he glanced at her. She was pale, her hand cold; but she gazed at him tranquilly, so he dropped his eyes back to the book. The print blurred, but he continued determinedly. "For in death there is no remembrance of thee: in the grave who shall give thee thanks? I am weary with my groaning; all the night make I my bed to swim; I water my couch with my tears. Mine eye — "

"Fitzwilliam," she said, in a bare whisper, and he jerked his eyes back to her face. Her eyes were closed, her skin very cold, and she did not speak again.

He hesitated only a moment, raising his fingers to her wrist, feeling desperately for some sign of life. Had she known? Had he?

"_Mother!"_


End file.
